Three minutes later, a black flag blazoned with white crossbones and skull climbed to the Good Fortune's main peak.
Falcon spoke over his shoulder to Lachlan standing just behind him.
"He is a brutish clodpole, this Black Lowther," he said, "but he has a certain wit. In these tame times the Black Roger is seldom flown because most rovers have grown too discreet to proclaim their profession. But when two gentlemen of that profession meet to settle a quarrel, it is fitting that they should meet under the good old flag."
He had scarcely finished when the gun at the brig's stern roared again. Suddenly Diccon Drews, who had been gazing at the Merry Amy through his glass, leaped into the air, clutching wildly at one of the pistols in his sash. He jerked it out and fired it above his head, then dashed it to the deck.
"A hit, by Judas! A hit!" he shouted. "Square in the foretopmast."
A great shout, exultant yet half incredulous, rose from the brig. To the unaided eye there was nothing to show that the man spoke truth, but almost instantly came the proof. On the deck of the Merry Amy there was a sudden activity. Yet swift as Lowther was to act, he was too late. Before he could shorten sail to relieve the strain, the wounded spar snapped with a report louder than the Merry Amy's cannon, swayed drunkenly and toppled to leeward, its ripped canvas fluttering and streaming in the wind.
